Different
by the-author-at-221B
Summary: They had their differences. Anyone could see that. From the moment they were children it was obvious that they were not going to be the sort of brothers that were constantly at one another's side. It wasn't that they were enemies. They were just different.


They had their differences.

Anyone could see that.

From the moment they were children it was obvious that they were _not_ going to be the sort of brothers that were constantly at one another's side.

It wasn't that they were enemies.

They were just different.

* * *

"Sherlock! We're going to be late!" Mycroft resumed his pacing in front of his little brother's door, knocking a mindless tune on the frame. It finally opened, revealing a somewhat tall, lanky boy, with dark hair and light eyes. "It's about time," Mycroft mumbled, already walking out the door. He knew that Sherlock would follow. He always did. They walked in companionable silence until Sherlock piped up.

"Your shirt," he said simply, not slowing his pace.

"My shirt?"

"Yes, your shirt," Sherlock echoed. Mycroft drew in a deep breath.

"What _about_ my shirt?"

"It's new. And it's ironed, and cleaned. You do _none_ of those things without asking." Sherlock tilted his head. "But I didn't hear mummy say anything about it being laundry day, or about her picking up any new clothes at all. That leads to the conclusion that you bought, washed, and ironed the shirt yourself." Sherlock sped up a bit and plucked the sleeve of Mycroft's shirt. "And it being blue, which happens to be Christie Morris, the new girl's, favorite color, I think we can just conclude that-"

"Alright! Sherlock! We get the point." Mycroft huffed. "Why must you always analyze me?"

"Because I don't have anyone else to." Sherlock said simply, now walking ahead of Mycroft. Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but he said nothing. He just smiled, and continued walking with Sherlock to school.

This time with Sherlock at his side.

* * *

They were graduating college together. This should be one of the happiest moments of Mycroft's life, except for one thing. They were _together_.

It hadn't taken long for everyone to realize how smart, brilliant, and otherwise clever Sherlock was. And it hadn't taken long for Sherlock to be moved up a few grades, so now, even when Mycroft was six years his senior, he and Sherlock were graduating together. With each relative that shook their hands and beamed, "Congratulations, boys! Especially you, Sherlock!", Mycroft's smile got harder and harder to fake.

"It's not my fault," a voice from behind Mycroft said, causing him to jump.

"Sherlock! Jesus Christ, don't scare me like that!"

"I realize that this day holds some sort of sentimental significance to you, it being your 'day of triumph', so to speak."

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you on about?"

"And know that I did _not_ mean to take away any of its value," Sherlock finished, in the same monotone that he always used.

"I know you don't," Mycroft sighed, offering a sad smile. "It's alright."

* * *

Mycroft took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, although everything in his mind was telling him to freak out. He looked back down at the grave with his mother's name on it and shook his head as a tear escaped. Sherlock was beside him, although he was doing nothing but staring straight ahead.

They stood there in silence for quite a while. Sherlock then took a deep breath, looked down at Mycroft, (Sherlock being the taller one now), and nodded once.

He turned around and walked away.

Leaving Mycroft behind.

* * *

It would be three years before they saw each other again. It wasn't that they were angry at each other, or that they blamed each other for what had happened.

It just brought up to many bad memories to deal with. And neither of them did too well with emotions.

"A Consulting Detective?"

"Only one in the world."

"This isn't a real job, Sherlock."

"It is now. I invented it."

"Dear Lord. How long have you been…. 'consulting'?"

"About a year now. I have someone on Scotland Yard who needs my help sometimes. Lestrade, his name is. I believe you know him."

"I'm not even going to _ask_ how you know that. It's been a _year_ since you've been doing this, you said?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Since _when_ has it been of any interest to you?"

* * *

Mycroft sat at his desk, looking through report upon report. He heard familiar footsteps coming down the hall.

"Doctor Watson," he mused, without looking up. "Do have a seat." He idly gestured to the empty seat in front of him, and only looked up when he saw that John was still standing. He smiled. He always did enjoy when John was in one of his moods. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor? I don't much enjoy guessing games."

"He's dead," John snapped, his eyes not leaving the floor. "He's dead."

"A lot of people die, my dear John, you're going to have to be more specific," Mycroft chuckled.

"He's _dead_!" John raised his voice, his dark eyes coming in contact with Mycroft's. "He's _dead_! Sherlock Holmes, your brother, is _dead_! He jumped from Saint Bart's, spilled his fucking brains all over the pavement, and he's _dead_!"

Mycroft opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it hurriedly, and choked out, "What?"

"He's dead. He's -" John let out a dark chuckle. "Do you even care? Do you even fucking c-"

"Stop repeating yourself!" Mycroft snapped, his voice hitching on the last syllable. "Shut up!" He stood up quickly in his desk, causing the chair to fall to the floor with a loud crash. John was a bit taken aback by this uncharacteristic show, but he quickly regained his anger.

"You don't have any damn right to tell me what to do!" he snarled. "He's dead because _you_ fucked up! _You _told Moriarty about Sherlock! _You_ let Moriarty go! What kind of -" John rocked back on his heels with this head clasped between his hands, seemingly trying to stop tears. "What kind of brother are you?"

"Shut up!" Now Mycroft was the one repeating himself. "You shut up!"

"But it's your _fault_!" John screamed back. "You selfish bastard it's your -" John dropped the sentence with a sob, collapsing into the chair that was offered to him at the beginning. He buried his head in his hands and cried, not noticing that Mycroft had not moved from his spot.

* * *

Mycroft didn't show for the funeral.

John wasn't surprised.

* * *

It was a very nice place, Mycroft admitted when he finally visited Sherlock's grave. It was raining that evening, no, raining was an understatement. It was pouring. Fortunately he had brought his umbrella. As always.

He hadn't cried. Not once. He supposed that made him a bad person for not doing so, but he realized that he didn't have the energy to care. He didn't have the energy to do much these days, anyhow. He looked down at the grave site and remembered that he didn't bring flowers. Oh, well. Sherlock was never one for sentimentality. As he turned and walked away to the unmarked car that was waiting for him, the loud roar of thunder played out overhead. Mycroft allowed himself a smile.

Sherlock was, however, one for theatrics.

* * *

Mycroft was not stupid. He knew what was being said behind his back. The whispers, the rumors, the lies.

_Did you hear? He never even mourned his brother._

_ I heard that the day after the funeral he was back at work._

_ He sounds like he's almost glad his brother is gone._

That was not true. He did care. He did mourn. He just didn't let it get in the way of his life. He didn't let others see.

It was harder than Mycroft had expected. The first couple of nights he couldn't sleep. That was actually quite normal, but when he realized that he hadn't eaten anything in a couple of days, he knew something was a matter. He never let anyone see. He never let anyone know he was suffering. He never let anyone know that he blamed himself and that John's grief ridden cries of "It's your _fault_!" still echoed in his ears

He did care. He did mourn, but just in his own way.

He went back to looking at reports. Nothing from John, as was expected. He had heard from Lestrade that John wasn't doing too well, falling into depression, and regaining his limp. The gold band that had appeared on John's ring finger three days before Sherlock's fall _might_ have had something to do with the amount of grief he was displaying as well. Poor sod. The knock on the door alerted him that someone was there.

"Come in," he said dryly. The door burst open, and Mycroft looked up, startled.

"Hello, my dear brother," the dead man said, spinning the chair before him around as he straddled it. "It's lovely to see you too."

Mycroft said nothing.

"I had some help in disappearing for a bit, as I'm sure you well know. But now we need to get down to business."

Mycroft still said nothing.

"Most of Moriarty's web is done for, but I'm sure that you were aware of that as well. There are a few choice persons that we need to find, however, I'm sure you can help us there. Moran, one of their names is. He was after John. I'm sure that if you looked into finding- " Sherlock stopped talking, as he saw the look at his elder brother's face. "Oh," he mused. "You didn't know."

"No," Mycroft barely whispered through gritted teeth. "I did not know." Neither of the Holmes brothers said anything more, just staring at each other, until Sherlock broke the silence.

"I do apologize. I thought that you were aware of the plan."

"I did not know," Mycroft repeated. God, he was starting to sound like John.

"Well, you know now," Sherlock said with a devil-may-care attitude. "Now is not the time for this, there are things that need to be done."

"You were dead."

"Obviously not, I'm standing right here. I'm disappointed in you, Mycroft. I didn't think you were one for sentimentali -" Sherlock was cut off as he staggered back across the room, reeling from Mycroft's backhand. Violence. He had expected this from John, but from Mycroft? He lifted his hand to stop the cut on his face from bleeding. Mycroft always had that damn heavy ring on his finger…

"You. Were. Dead," Mycroft stuttered, losing his composure. "You. You made me believe that my only brother was _dead_, you made me believe that I had a hand in your death!"

"It was necessary!"

"I don't give a _damn_!" Mycroft yelled, finally losing his temper as well. "You do not _ever_ do _anything_ like that _again_!"

Sherlock sat on the floor, taken aback. This was not the reaction he was expecting. He looked up at Mycroft and saw – no. That couldn't be. Was that? Was Mycroft tearing up? Mycroft quickly wiped the corners of his eyes, and started to walk out of the room. Sherlock sprang up and stopped him, putting his hands on each of Mycroft's shoulders.

That was the first physical contact they had had in years, aside from the hitting.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said softly, and when Mycroft tilted his head upwards to look Sherlock in the eyes, he knew that Sherlock was telling the truth.

And if Mycroft leaned his forehead on Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around his older brother, neither of the men would ever tell.

Because the Holmes brothers were _not_ the sort of brothers that were constantly at one another's side.

But they might not have been as different as they thought.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review to let me know how I did! Any and all feedback is much appreciated. Thank you!


End file.
